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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466873">Stop Staring.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplysaid/pseuds/simplysaid'>simplysaid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Headcanon, RPF, famous people fun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:54:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplysaid/pseuds/simplysaid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, I’m famous. Like, I’m really famous. You probably recognize me. I was on that soap opera that everyone’s grandmother loves. I did two movies, with four more in pre-production. The first movie got me a Golden Globe. The second got me an Oscar nomination. I’ve been on the cover of every major magazine in the country. I am, as my absurdly foul-mouthed publicist puts it, “the hottest piece of ass in Hollywood.” Since I was cast in the commercial that People Magazine calls my big break, it’s only been 18 months and I am fucking freaking out."	</p><p>You fly your best friend out to LA to help you navigate this your new life, new movie, and new co-star.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome! This is pretty much head canon fun. Written in 1st person but meant to be reader insert, so the narrator characteristics are purposefully left a bit vague. I basically moved around our favorite MCU actors into different positions in this world that made my little heart happy. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So, I’m famous. Like, I’m really famous. You probably recognize me. I was on that soap opera that everyone’s grandmother loves. I did two movies, with four more in pre-production. The first movie got me a Golden Globe. The second got me an Oscar nomination. I’ve been on the cover of every major magazine in the country. I am, as my absurdly foul-mouthed publicist puts it, “the hottest piece of ass in Hollywood.” Since I was cast in the commercial that People Magazine calls my big break, it’s only been 18 months and I am fucking freaking out.</p><p> </p><p>The thing that no one tells you about being famous is that, mostly, it’s lonely. It is for this exact reason that I am spending an exorbitant amount of money (equal to what was once my mother’s yearly salary) on chartering a private jet to fly my best friend to Los Angeles to live with me. “That’s just fine, honey,” she told me over the phone. She said she was on her way to a meeting but I thought I could hear the sound of a nail salon in the background. “Don’t forget about that test shoot. Why don’t you just have a taxi pick him up? It makes me look bad if you’re late, you know.” My mother is my manager, or she says. I haven’t figured out what it is that she does exactly, aside from spending 10% of everything I make on spa treatments and fad diets. </p><p> </p><p>So now I wait. I pull the faded baseball cap down a little lower and adjust my sunglasses. It might seem silly but it’s become something of a habit to layer on the levels of disguise. Even now, tucked behind darkly tinted windows in a shining SUV, I worry that someone will figure out it’s me. So I shove my long hair up under the cap and wear a hooded sweatshirt two sizes too large. I cover my easily recognizable grey eyes behind sunglasses that I’ve had since I was 16. I can feel the driver staring at me in the rearview mirror. I make a mental note to have my mother fire him later. It’s odd, considering my profession, I am aware. I hate being stared at.</p><p> </p><p>Through the pristine windshield, I can see the private plane land and begin to taxi toward us. By the time I slide on those inexcusably expensive sneakers (the ones that look like they’ve been rubbed through a mud pile) and climb out of the gleaming black SUV, my best friend is bounding down the airplane stairs and running towards me. </p><p> </p><p>“Darling!”</p><p> </p><p>“Tom!” I realize immediately that I missed him even more than I thought. He wraps his arms around me and swings me in a circle. </p><p> </p><p>“Listen,” Tom Holland’s posh British accent fills my heart with such sentimental joy, “That plane was an absolute waste of your hard-earned money, darling.” He places me gently back on my feet with a smile. “You know I could have flown commercial.”</p><p> </p><p>I shake my head, pointing to the back of the SUV when the airplane staff appears with his bags. “No. Absolutely not.” It’s been hard to get used to the way that people bend to my whim, I can’t deny it. But this makes it worth it. “What’s the point of all of this if it doesn’t give me the opportunity to treat the people I love?”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles and presses my hand into the crook of his elbow as we walk toward the SUV. “Fine, fine. But also,” Tom leans in conspiratorially. His voice drops an octave. “Can we talk about the disguise?”</p><p> </p><p>I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of me. “I know,” I draw out the last syllable, embarrassed, and pull the sunglasses off. “It’s not a disguise, though.” I slide into the backseat first; Tom follows close behind. “I just hate being stared at and that’s all that happens anymore, Tom.” </p><p> </p><p>He throws one arm across the top of the seat, shifting so his whole body is facing me. “Isn’t that what,” his dark brown eyes scan the shiny interior and the driver, “all this is about? Being stared at? Darling, you’re on magazines now. People can’t help but stare.” </p><p> </p><p>He’s right. He’s always right. He has been since we were kids. We’ve been best friends since he moved to my little hometown in Maine from England. We tried to kiss once, when we were 13. Our teeth clicked together and I maintain that he slobbered on me. It’s been strictly platonic ever since. </p><p> </p><p>Instead of giving him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, I change subjects to this all-important test shoot. “Will you come with me to the studio? I know you need to get moved in, but we can have them drop your things off at the house and you can come with me. It’s a camera test for the movie I start in a few weeks..” </p><p> </p><p>Tom smiles, clapping his hands together. “Ah, yes. Let’s see how movie stars live!”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>An assistant meets our car at the entrance to a nondescript office building on the Paramount Studio lot. She runs through the spiel like they always do, explaining that she works for the director and that he wants my co-star and I to run through a few scenes on camera. It’s all fairly standard practice and something that I’ve done several times prior. The only real difference today is that I’ve never met my co-star. I usually have some sort of prior relationship with him or her, even if it’s only from meeting at parties. </p><p> </p><p>The assistant, a pretty redhead, points Tom to a chair near the back of the room before turning her attention back to me. “Could you change clothes? Mr. Gregg asked that this be all bare bones so he can really visualize his process for the film.” </p><p> </p><p>It takes every ounce of self-control in my body not to roll my eyes. This isn’t Citizen Kane. It’s a moderately budgeted studio action movie. I have no patience for the director bullshit that is so prevalent in this business. Clark Gregg had seemed nice in our first meeting but this proves that he is no different from the rest. Acting is all pretend. It’s like my 4 year old cousin in her playhouse. None of this is real. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, I smile. “Sure.” I pull off the ball cap and sweatshirt, tossing them on the floor next to Tom. I’m left in one of those white tank tops that isn’t really supposed to be seen in the light of day, a pair of black leggings, and those ungodly sneakers. “Is this okay?”</p><p> </p><p>The assistant looks me up and down appraisingly. More staring. Great. “That should be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>The door opens and my co-star slides in. He’s taller than I thought he would be, muscular and lean. He has a full beard that I didn’t expect. He spots me from across the room and immediately approaches, big hand outstretched. He smiles widely. “Hi there, I’m Chris Evans.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His hand is warm as it grips mine, giving me a shake solid enough to shimmy my shoulders. “I saw your last movie. You’re good.” I note immediately that his smile is genuine, without a doubt in my mind. I also note, for the most fleeting of seconds, that his blue eyed gaze ticks down to my chest. Most anyone else wouldn’t notice. I, however, have become a quick study since this became my life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Compliments are always a sore spot for me, unless they come from Tom. “Good enough for </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Clark Gregg, I suppose.” For some reason, I give a stupid little curtsy. The redheaded assistant stifles a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. I have yet to score an oscar nomination for myself.” He slips off his faded blue button down as he speaks. He must have already been given the memo about this shoot being bare bones. He is left in a pair of dark wash jeans and a white v-neck tee. Most men look silly in a v-neck, I won’t lie. Chris looks nice, though. It shows off the hours he’s spent in the gym.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you’re America’s Ass!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris lets out this full throated cackle that makes me blush. “So you saw that one?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris Evans helmed a massive comic book franchise that had dramatically changed the face of film. “Me and 3 quarters of the world, I think.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth and moves to close the distance between us to continue the conversation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can say anything, the door to this small room opens once more. Clark Gregg saunters in with 2 PAs and a box of what I’m guessing are props. I think he’s probably handsome, but not my type. He’s got an angular face and a bald head. He’s wearing one of those thick wool sweaters that grandpas favor. “My stars! Let’s not waste any time this afternoon. You’re all very busy. Pop in front of the camera for me and let’s do the scene from page 93.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I chance a look over my shoulder at Tom. He’s made himself quite a little home in the corner, next to the craft services table. He seems like he’s trying to chat up one of the PA’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Page 93,” Chris murmurs, hands running over his beard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Page 93,” I repeat. It’s the romantic climax of the whole movie. Our characters have spent the first hour of the script running through explosions and gunfire. This scene is where we both profess our love for eachother. I wish Clark would have picked something a little easier since we’ve only just met. Why couldn’t we practice diving under tables? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clark claps his hands together twice. “Chop chop, kids!” He sits his lean body in a prepositioned chair, script on his lap. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, chin in hands. The universal director signal for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get on with it already</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I follow Chris to the head of the small room, shaking my arms out and taking deep breaths as I do. It becomes almost immediately silent. Except for the sound of familiar chewing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tom,” I whisper with a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jumps, dropping a thickly frosted cookie in his lap. “What? Oh, dear. Sorry about that!” Tom mimes zipping his lips with a wink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh at my oldest friend but must immediately push it out of my mind. This is all pretend. It’s all director bullshit. But it’s also how I provide for myself and my family. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clark’s eyes twinkle. “Action!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A PA hands Chris a bulletproof vest and a prop gun. It’s supposed to be a Glock, I think. He turns toward me, his blue eyes suddenly blazing with passion. “Gracie, listen to me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My hand goes instinctively to my mouth in shock. I wasn’t prepared for the way he was looking at me; like I was the only thing that mattered in the world to him. “Jack, stop. Don’t be stupid. We’re going to be fine. We can make it out.” I walk the few short steps so our bodies are pressed close together. I reach up and lay my palm flat against his chest. “Together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, mouth set in a grim straight line. I may have the Golden Globe sitting in my bathroom but being hit with the full force of Chris Evans charm is intoxicating. He puts his right hand on my hips, the pads of his fingers gently moving against the slice of abdomen between the top of my leggings and the hem of my tanktop. “I can stop this. I can save these people. But I need to know that you’re safe.” Chris abruptly pulls away and sticks the prop gun in the waistband of his pants. “Put this on,” he slips the bulletproof vest over my head and cinches it tight around my midsection. The muscle in his strong jaw works, like he’s overwhelmed at the thought of losing me but won’t show it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gun is fake but the vest is real. I find myself swaying under the weight of it. “Please don’t make me do this,” I whisper. I even manage a lone tear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gently pulls my hair out of the back of the vest and lays it over my shoulder. His long index fingers twirls a lock. Chris presses a kiss to my forehead and speaks again, low and pained. “When you get out, turn left, and don’t stop running until you see someone you trust.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris lets me go and I turn, as though I would run off screen. End of scene. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The PAs and the redheaded assistant all clap enthusiastically. I look to Clark. He seems unimpressed. “Where was the kiss?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris and I look at eachother and shrug. “It was just scripted as a forehead kiss,” he offers by way of explanation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clark blinks, head tilting to the side. “I’d like to run it again. This time, kiss her like you’re never going to see her again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull at the velcro on the bulletproof vest and try to pull it over my head. No luck. It’s too heavy. Sensing my difficulty, Chris is suddenly by my side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me help,” he says quietly. He pulls it over my head in one effortless gesture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We shift back to where we started the scene, running it through once more. We go through the same motions but Chris is more stern, more tortured. “Please don’t make me do this alone, Jack,” I whisper, letting a strangled sob escape my throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris pulls me to him, his palms on my cheeks. “When you get out, turn left, and don’t stop running until you see someone you trust.” Then he kisses me. It’s slow at first; gentle and tentative. When I step into the kiss, pressing against him, he deepens it. His long fingers snake into my hair and his tongue grazes my bottom lip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He breaks the kiss and I find that my hands are on his chest, balling his shirt up into my fists. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be safe.” Chris’ voice is ragged. He presses his forehead to mine. “For me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a long beat of silence where I forget that I am in front of our director, my best friend, and 3 random staff members. I can’t think past the burning look in his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“THAT’S PERFECT!” Clark roars his approval, clapping loudly. “You do that again on set and we will have a genuine hit on our hands, kids! Genuine hit.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chris releases me from his grasp, smoothly undoing the bulletproof vest and removing it for me. His cheeks are pink; he’s breathing heavily. “First day of shooting next week,” he tells me quietly. As though his tongue wasn’t just in my mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod, clearing my throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll,” he won’t make eye contact with me now. “I’ll see you then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clark pulls Chris toward the door and I’m left staring after him. What the hell was that?!</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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